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Ceramic Cat pt. 2
NOTE: There were some difficulties with my autologger, so I apologise if any poses seem to be missing or are posted twice. I fixed the mess as best as I could, but some mistakes may have escaped my notice. -Tachyglossus AKA Swivel It was all she could do. Swivel was a courier, not a medic. So all she could do was call for help, and stay crouched at Flatline's side until help arrived. She had every mind to see this through, because Swivel is a courier that cares. She also wants to try and reverse some of the damage. Thankfully, despite the fall, Flatline had not suffered much in the way of damage. When he wakes up he might have a few more dents than he remembers, but such is easily remedied. If anything had truly suffered it is the wide-array of items that had been swept off the counter during his fall. After the courier sent out the call for help, it took only a few moments for a first responder who had been monitoring the line to respond. <> In Swivel's defense, Blurr was the real cause for destruction. Unfortuneately, she does not know this. So she only has herself to blame for this misfortune. And when the questions come in, she is uncertain how to respond. Caste? How would she know that? She looks around. Obviously, he was a higher caste than her. She could just be honest in her ignorance. With a sigh, Swivel begins to speak into her radio. <> Swivel picks up one of Flatline's arms and let's it drop. <<...Contact or voice. I was in another room when this happened, so I didn't see anything. I dunno 'is caste.>> Wow, Swivel has a decent radio voice. In that she bothers to enunciate very carefully. Although she still seems to drop her H's. <> the responder replies, the tone of voice changing to disinterested when he hears the address. Many of the lower caste lived there and first responders aren't even authorized to treat them. Most knew not to even bother calling for help. Flatline's hand hit the floor with a loud THUNK, still not moving or responsive for the moment. Scratching herself under her chin, swivel herself evaluates the mech. She begins to poke around and listen, checking for the thrum of his spark or the pumping of coolant, even the heat generated by the constant energy conversion of energon. <> Swivel finally decides. Mechs don't just drop dead after being fine one moment ago. Not without signs of murder, right? Oh that is scary thought. <<'E's got a lotta nice stuff, so tell 'em not to break anything.>> Alright, that is one of the more interesting comments the responder had heard that day. <> And by that the responder meant they were going to wait a good fifteen minutes or more before directing anyone there. Most likely a disposable from the sounds of it, and it'd be easier to pick up a dead frame than have to tell the mecha there they're not allowed to intervene or treat. ooking down at Fatline, Swivel ponders. How much to tell? Well, the truth is always best. But how much of the truth? Hmmm. The absolute everything included truth usually bores, offends, or otherwise gets a bad reaction. She knows. She can sure prattle. After a moment of deliberation, she decides to explain the following. <> the mecha on the other end of the line assures Swivel, and before she has the chance to say another word the responder has hung up the line. If they thought the injured had been someone of a higher caste, no doubt they would have stayed on the line until the first responder arrived but Swivel is left on her own. Twenty-five minutes tick by with no help or sign of help, and the retired medic doesn't even twitch a finger during the entire span. His condition, at least, seems to remain stable otherwise. And it is just then that the sound of approaching chopper blades can be heard through the open window. Two minutes later after the sound has faded away and there is a knock on the door. There is no lack for Swivel to keep her mind occupied. Some of it is chiding herself. Some of it is looking around in wonder. And some of it is occasionally saying Flatline's name in hopes of getting a response. That isn't to say that the time flies, but it doesn't drag for the femme either. NOnetheless, she is relieved when someone FINALLY arrives. "Okay, Flatline? I'l be roight back. 'Ang in there," Swivel says as she slowly stands up. She then quickly, but much more carefully, makes her way to the door, swinging it open. "'E's roight this way!" Swivel is saying as she opens the door before even confirming that they are, indeed, first response. The mecha standing in the doorway seems much too large to fit through it, and he has to hunch down in order to make his way into the tiny apartment. With the large first responder shoved into the space along with Swivel and the overabundance of decorations the place suddenly seems almost claustrophobic. As he moves to follow the courier it quickly becomes evident why the first responder is so sizeable. The rotors at his back strut fidget endlessly, revealing not only his alt mode but also that he is extremely uncomfortable in the shoebox apartment "Vicegrip wasn't kidding about the st-" he starts to mutter to himself before he remembers why he's here. "Right. This way," he repeats, moving to shift into the other room. An object on a shelf totters dangerously as he passes and brushes it with a fidgeting rotor, but the helicopter doesn't seem to notice. Once in the side-room, he rushes to the passed out medic's side. "Has there been any change in his condition since you called?" he calls back to the courier without looking back. His focus remains on the patient. Being extra mindful of her own mass, Swivel maneuvers carefully about the small apartment, which suddenly feels a lot smaller with the copterformer now present. However, she does not dawdle in leading the mech to the kitchen where Flatline fell. Now does she hesitate to attend to the bauble that was upset by this mech's rotor. While she is steadying this odd looking relic, she responds, "No change, none 't'all. Jus' not 'spondin' t'enthin'." And she's back to her lazy speech. That could be a good or a bad thing. If his condition isn't worsening, perhaps it is not immediately life-threating, but from what he was told by the responder who had patched him through to answer this call it took much more than getting rattled to cause such an extended case of involuntary shutdown. His first thought is the stress had triggered a much more serious condition. First things first, though, he gives a close examination of the patient to get some clue of cast. A quick pat down doesn't reveal where he keeps the identification card with caste and designation all citizens are required to carry, but he does notice the markings on his forearm and the well-kept state of his frame. He had seen other medics with these markings and build. "Thank you, miss?" he pauses, hinting for a designation. "For keeping an optic on him until I could arrive. I have it from here," he adds, now that he's mostly assured this mecha is a high enough caste he can legally treat him. Now he could see to noting vitals and properly assessing his condition. Swivel knows better than to get into the space of first response. But she is also is woefully curious, and so she hangs back, but still manages to sort of hover about the large mech as he examines Flatline. "Swivel. I'm Swivel, global courier. An', t'was nuttin'... 'specially since I worry I mighta been sorta 'sponsible...." the femme fidgets and tries to get a good view of just what the mech is doing, but also doesn't want to be in the way. "Swivel, yes, thank you," he responds. "My designation is Warwing." As for what the medic is doing, the first thing he does is repeat Flatline's designation and give him a soft shake. He fully expects that won't work, though, knowing that the patient has been passed out for such an extended length of time. Unconscious or not, though, he keeps up a steady stream of conversation in case the patient does rouse. As he leans over to press a digit to Flatline's neck cables, intending to get a read on the beat of his fuel pump, he adds back to Swivel. "If I can ask one more favor of you, grab one of the chairs in the other room and bring it in here and lift his pedes to rest on it. It helps encourage energon flow to the brain module." Why the first responder hadn't mentioned to do that long before he arrived, he had not the least idea. Not thinking anything of it, like the lack of instruction before now, Swivel rushes to find a chair. She looks for something not too heavy or too awkward. Having to settle on something only slightly awkward, she drags the chair to the kitch area with great care. She sets it down near Flatline's feet, and looks to Warwing. Even though Warwing knows it is coming, he can't help but give a little start when he catches the flash of movement as Swivel drags the chair into the room. His hand falls away from Flatline's neck cables and he does his best to suppress the shudder that goes up his frame. No matter how he tries, though, the veteran of the quintesson war often finds himself startled by the smallest things. It takes him a moment to regain his composure. "I d-don't think you need worry about your involvement. His vitals seem stable. Whatever has caused this, I do not think it immediately threatening," he says, his voice slightly shaking at the start. He moves to lift the retired medic's pedes and place them on the chair. "Once I'm assured the fall caused no damage and it is safe to move him I'll take him for further testin- ACK!" he suddenly cuts off when the retired medic shift's a little, optics flickering back online with a quiet groan. It is a bit odd, such a large mech being a bit on the skittish side. At least, Swivel thinks so when he flinches a litter when she drags she chair over. She doesn't really say anything, though. She just watches and stands by to be of any further assistance because she is a good little femme who likes to help. well she does make a sigh of relief, saying 'thank goodness,' amidst that sigh when he informs her that he doesn't believe she was responsible. She considers leavin to get back to her own duties then, but decides she ought to be around when they mech comes to, if viable, so he knows she didn't just mess up his house and leave. Upon seeing some movement, Swivel's optics flicker. She doesn't seem quite as jumpy, but then again, she isn't an Age of Wrath survivor, or have any involvement with any war, really. "Ooooh 'e wakin' up?" 'Is he waking up?' is a question that is quickly answered. The retired medic's optics lock on Warwing and Swivel, a look of confusion flashing across his faceplates, before the memories come flooding back all at once. Flatline's frame suddenly stiffens and he grimaces as he tries to process what he remembers and the questions rolling through his helm. Where there is confusion, the first responder assumes 'pain.' Despite the surprise of the medic's suddenly awakening, he quickly snaps back into work mode and places Flatline's pedes back on the ground. "Take it easy, take it easy. Where are you feeling pain? My designation is Warwing and I was called to assist when you collapsed. I'm here to help," the first responder says as he shifts back to Flatline's side. Flatline, however, is not focused on this stranger. His optics lock on Swivel. "What happened? What did you see?" he demands, hoping that the courier can string together this situation in a way he can't seem to. Purple optics are focused on the stirring retiree. Her hands are on her thighs and she is leaning forward slightly to get a better look without actually approaching. Upon being accosted with questions, Swivel straightens up abruptly, looking a bit sheepish. "Ey, er, yeah, um..." she mumbles as she begins to rubs the back of her neckguard. "I 'unno. I's busy keepin' yer thin's from fallin' an 'en I 'eard a CRASH... an' there y'were, on the ground." Swivel taps her chin thoughtfully. "But now I think 'bout it, I think I kinner 'eard a sorter... crackle-zap noise 'fore the crashe. Oh, and you yellin' PRIMUS NO!" Flatline's frame begins to shudder with the anger that his collapse had staved off for a bit, and Warwing is at his side trying to keep him calm. "Everything will be fine, sir. I simply need you to cooperate with me. Now, if you'll tell me wher-" but he doesn't get to finish before Flatline cuts him off with a growl. "And then you called for help," he mutters, looking at Swivel and finishing the story for her. "I'm fine, I'm fine. A little light-headed and dinged up, maybe, but I'm not in any serious pain," he assures the first responder, but the whole time his gaze doesn't leave Swivel. "That's it," he mutters. "That's all there is." His hand clenches into a fist. At this point there is no sense in giving himself away anymore. Frustrated or not over what has happened, he has to choke it back and act somewhat ordinary and find a more practical way to solve the situation once he's gotten stock of it all. " I'm sorry I yelled at you, miss. You were simply doing your job. I don't know what came over me, obviously not feeling myself at the moment." If only Swivel had seen something. A streak. A blur. She'd know what had happened. Blurr. Blurr happens to people, and it seems like she is often the harbinger of people's fate when it is Blurr related. He really puts a damper on her job performance. But the femme saw nothing, and thus could not help in any meaningful way. "Yeah, 'en I called f'elp. I dinno wha't'do. I coo'na jus' leave y'there li'that. But... y'seem t'be a'ight now... so mebbe I otter go...." Swivel glances away. "'N s'alright, used t'gettin' yelled at jus' fer doin' m'job." Like getting yelled at by Blurr. And customers. And Blurr. As Flatline shifted to sit up, Warwing moves to give him a supporting hand just in case. "Considering the unusual circumstances of your collapse, Flatline, I would suggest allowing me to take you for further testing so we can pinpoint the issue. Unless you have a pre-existing condition you are aware of that could have brought this on, and if such is the case I need to know for your own well-being," the first responder mutters. His optics dance between Swivel and Flatline, not entirely sure what to make of the odd conversation, but his focus remains on the patient. The retired medic finally seems to genuinely notice Warwing, his gaze tearing from Swivel to the large helicopter. For a moment he looks uncertain, and then his shoulders sag with defeat. "I suppose that would be the smart thing to do. Thank you for calling for assistance, Swivel, as I have no idea what caused this and it is important not to ignore such things. And I am sorry to put you through such trouble. If you'll leave your address out on the counter before you go, I will see you get properly compensated for your time once this is sorted," he remarks, nodding towards Warwing. "Can you walk, then, sir? And then we'll be on our way," Warwing says. When the old medic nods, the first responder continues to support him as he pulls him to his pedes. It is a nice change of pace, seeing one mech support another, from a lot of the aggression or callousness that can go on in places like Kaon or Nyon. Of course, it's Warwing's job to assist, but still. Swivel smiles a little, as she is prone to do. And when mention of compensation pops up, her optics widen and she perks up even more, her smile growing wider. Of course, perhaps she ought to refuse so not to seem like a good for nothing leech. On the other hand, in her situation, she can't afford to waive bonuses. Grinning happily, Swivel merely gets out a thin, metal card with a chip on it and some logo for some courier service, putting it on the counter. "Easier t'get 'old o' me through this agency," Swivel explains. she wasn't going to admit to the atrocioous truth - Swivel doesn't have an address. The femme technically is an empty, which even in her own caste, puts her at the bottom of the pile. Flatline is only unsteady on his pedes for a fleeting second once he is standing again. Still a little lightheaded and sore from his fall, it takes him a moment to find his balance but there is little risk with the massive copter keeping a grip on him. Even when he finds his stride, the first responder continues to hover behind him with an arm outstretched, ready to catch him if he should fall again. "I'll need to see your identification before I can escort you for further treatment, sir, but once we are through with that it will only take a matter of minutes to get where we need to be." "Of course, of course. I keep my identification in my subspace," Flatline responds as he reaches to dig for the card that gave his designation, and more importantly, his caste. "Have a good trip home, Swivel," he adds as he fishes out the small card and hands it to he first responder to inspect. The courier femme smiles when she is wished a good trip home, and can hardly avoid responding with an equally cordial, and rather genuine, "'Ope ya get feelin' better. Sorry fer 'en inconvenience on m'part," Swivel assures. Still grinning, the femme makes her way out ahead of Flatline and Warwing, humming merrily to herself. Disaster averted! See? Even when things go wrong, they can still be righted! It's these little events that help isnpire hope in the small femme.